Right wing … left wing … conservative … liberal … moderate … Orthodox … reform. Everybody, and I mean everybody here had an opinion about something. Everybody, that is, except me.
I watched and listened, but I honestly didn’t know what to think. One side would say something and it would make sense, but then the other side always had some good points and, in the end, I was just confused. They all wanted to know where I stood, but I’d never even considered most of this stuff before.
Back in Canada, I used to catch the occasional news story and sometimes even Larry King when I was flipping channels on TV. I had been vaguely aware of what was going on, but to tell you the truth, the troubles of the world had just been like background noise. Sure, it looked bad when I took the time to watch, but it was almost always happening on the other side of the globe. Now it was here in my own backyard … and I was quickly learning that staying neutral was not an option.
I confided my feelings to Marla on the way home from school one day.
“It’s like it’s a crime not to have an opinion around here!” I complained.
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it is in this country. I was the same as you when I first moved to Israel.”
“Really?” That surprised me. She seemed so out-spoken and sure of herself.
“Absolutely. It’s like, why concern yourself with the problems of the world when your life is so far removed from it, right? But here in Israel, you’re in the middle of it all. You’re involved because of your address, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I guess I’m just not an in-your-face kind of person.”
She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “That won’t last long here. It’s good to have your own opinions. You can’t always let other people tell you what to think.”
We walked in silence for a minute.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about changing right away,” she added, her voice a sing-song of secrets.
“Why not?”
“Well, for now, what you’re doing seems to be working for you in the guy department.”
“What do you mean?” I stopped walking and grabbed her arm. “What guy department?”
“I mean,” she explained, turning to me with a funny little smirk, “that from what I hear, the guys at school are fascinated by you. They all want to know why you don’t talk.”
I couldn’t believe my ears!
“I don’t talk because I don’t know what to say!” I said defensively.
“Maybe so, but they think you’re hiding a deep secret or something. You’re getting a reputation around school as, I think the words I heard were, ‘some kind of mysterious, exotic beauty.’”
“What? Me? Exotic? A beauty?” I almost choked on the words.
“Yes you!” she laughed. “Is that so hard to believe? Haven’t you noticed guys staring at you?”
“Yeah … but … but I thought it was because they thought I was a geek.”
“Well, Mack, think again! You’re a really pretty girl — don’t you realize that?”
I didn’t. So I have to admit, I was very flattered to be thought of as exotic. Back in Toronto I had always felt like such a plain Jane.
Later that night I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, examining my features. Was I pretty? Had I changed at all since the move? It was hard to tell.
I wondered about the boys at school and which ones had noticed me. The short guy who was always asking to borrow my pencil in math class? The cute one with the baseball cap whose locker was right next to mine? The one with the glasses who’d smiled at me on my way into the cafeteria earlier that day?
After a while I stopped trying to figure it out and went to bed. Because in the end, it didn’t really matter. There was only one boy I wanted to impress.
Chapter 10
Nasir got a letter from his cousin Ziyad today. Mama was eager to tell him about it when he got home from work. Dropping her stirring spoon onto the counter, she practically skipped across the kitchen to give it to him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking it from her outstretched hand and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Come, why don’t you open it now?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
Nasir would rather have read it alone, but he really had no choice. He knew if he refused, his mother would wonder why. Reluctantly, he pulled the letter back out of his pocket and slowly tore open the envelope. She scooped Baby Rana up into her arms and waited patiently to hear what her favourite nephew had to say.
Mama wasn’t the only one who adored Ziyad. He was pretty much the star of the whole Hadad family. Not only was he good-looking and full of personality, he was also a certified genius. He had left to go to university in America a couple of years ago with a full scholarship to study engineering at MIT. Growing up together in Jerusalem, the cousins had always been really close. Nasir idolized Ziyad — he considered him to be the older brother he never had. The summer before he left for MIT, they used to go up to the rooftop and talk all night about everything from soccer and girls to religion and their dreams for the future. Ziyad was always bursting with new and interesting ideas. He’d really helped Nasir look at the world in a different, more modern way — a way that neither of their traditional families would ever approve of. And the letters he sent from America were no different. But as much as Nasir looked forward to getting them, he always destroyed them immediately after reading them. He couldn’t take a chance that his parents would find them — Mama didn’t read English, but Baba did.
He unfolded the single-page letter and read silently.
Nasir,
Have you spoken to your parents yet? Are you coming to visit? I know the ticket is expensive. Soon I’ll make enough money to fly you over. Once you come you’ll never want to leave. I’ll get an apartment with a room just for you. I swear, you’ll love it here. You’re free to do what you want. Right now I’m saving up to buy myself a car. Everyone here drives a car.
How are my parents? Do you see them often? I can tell from their letters that they’re growing nervous. They keep asking me to promise I’ll return to the Middle East when my degree is complete. Their last letter was about setting up a marriage to one of their friends’ daughters in Beirut. They think that will keep me close. But I won’t do it.
I’m in love, Nasir — the real thing this time. The women here are so beautiful. And they’re free to speak their minds — and marry whoever they please. Everything is so different here. There are jobs here that pay more money in one year than our fathers ever made in their whole lives. You must come join me.
Write to me soon,
Ziyad
“Well?” urged Mama, shifting Rana from one hip to the other. “What does he say?”
Nasir scrambled to come up with something.
“Um … he says he’s well. School is fine and he’s studying very hard and earning top marks. And, uh … he’s lost some weight — Western-style food still doesn’t please him.”
He studied his mother’s face, hoping the mention of food would distract her from asking more questions. It worked.
“Ah! Poor child!” she said, clucking her tongue. “What he needs is a big plate of my musakhan. It was always his favourite.” Picking the letter out of her son’s hands, she frowned as her eyes scanned the page. Nasir held his breath and waited.
“Such a good boy, Ziyad. You should try to be like him when you grow up,” she said, handing him back the letter.
He nodded and stuffed it back into his jeans pocket. His thoughts flashed to the gum girl.
“I’ll try, Mama,” he replied, heading straight for the bathroom where he could read the letter one more time in private before ripping it up and flushing the pieces down the toilet.
Chapter 11
We spoke! Oh my God! We spoke!
I stumbled up the street towards my apartment, praying my legs wouldn’t give out on me. My head was spinning, my heart was racing,
my lip was sweating and there was a hot, prickly feeling making its way up the back of my neck. I felt like I was going to faint. I sat down on the curb outside my building and put my head between my knees, willing myself to calm down as my mind went over the details of what had just happened.
Relax, Mack … relax! Get a grip on yourself!
But I couldn’t relax. I was a mess. A quivering, sweating, hopelessly romantic mess. The Arab boy and I finally spoke. Actually, we did more than speak: we touched. Well, he touched me. Oh my God, just thinking about it was making my stomach do flip-flops!
It all started out so normal. I walked into his store, picked out my usual pack of gum, and took it up to the counter to pay. I could feel those brown eyes of his studying me as I fished around in my purse for some money.
Wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t find any! Between my new daily habits of coffee and gum I was practically penniless. Note to self: ask Dad for raise in allowance. I stood there like an idiot, burrowing furiously in my pockets for change while my face turned red with mortification.
After a few more seconds, I found some shekels at the bottom of my back pocket and sprinkled them on the counter in front of him. I waited for him to take them and put them in his cash register — but he didn’t. I pushed the coins closer towards him and cleared my throat.
We did this routine every day—what was he doing?
I racked my brain to think of something clever to say when suddenly he glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then leaned over the counter towards me.
“I see you in here a lot. You buy a lot of gum.”
My heart skipped in my chest. His voice was deep and smooth and, although he spoke with an accent, his English was perfect. Just like I’d imagined it would be.
“Um, well — it’s sugar-free, so my dentist doesn’t mind,” I stammered stupidly.
Great, Mack! Why don’t you tell him about your last fluoride treatment while you’re at it?
He didn’t say anything; he just stared at me. Damn it! He must think I’m an idiot.
“Um, my name’s Mackenzie,” I said to ease the silence.
“Mack-en-zie,” he repeated. The way he said it sounded more like “Muck and Zee,” but I didn’t dare correct him. It was kind of cute.
“Nice to meet you, Muck-and-zee,” he said, flashing a smile of beautiful white teeth. “I’m Nasir. Nasir Hadad.”
“Hi,” I said shyly, willing my face not to blush a second time.
“Do you live in the neighbourhood?”
“Yeah, in the apartment around the corner. How did you know?”
Now it was his turn to look embarrassed.
“I — I just see you in here so much,” he stammered.
“Yeah, well, we just moved here from Canada.”
His eyes lit up. “Ah! Canada — I have a cousin going to school near there!”
“Oh really?” I laughed. Did everyone in this country have a cousin in Canada?
“He goes to university in a big city where the winters are very cold,” Nasir continued. “He’s been there two years now.”
“Is it York University in Toronto? Because my dad’s a professor there. Maybe he knows him.”
I was eager to find something in common with him. I’d always heard that couples who were destined to be together could find strings of coincidences linking their lives to each other.
Nasir smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
Damn it! So much for destiny!
“Ziyad’s school is in Massa … uh, Massa …”
“Mississauga?”
“No, Massa … Massa-twoshits.”
I giggled. “You mean Massa chusetts?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. His school is called MIT — it’s a very difficult school. Ziyad is very smart. You said your father’s a professor? He must be a very smart man, too.”
“Yes, very smart,” I agreed, unsure what to say next. I didn’t want to talk about Dad. And I didn’t want to embarrass Nasir by telling him that Massachusetts was like, a ten-hour drive from where I lived. I cleared my throat again and hoped I would come up with something funny that would make him laugh and realize how witty and friendly I was. But my mind drew a blank. So instead I flipped my hair off my shoulder and tried to pose prettily like I’d seen Hailey and Steffi do so many times. It felt kind of awkward, but I hoped it looked good. It always seemed to work for other girls.
Nasir leaned forward a little more until we stood so close, I could hear his breathing over the hum of the ceiling fan. He smelled nice — like fresh laundry and toothpaste. For a split second I thought for sure he was going to kiss me. I hesitated while my brain toyed with the possibility.
Is this too early for kissing? Should I let him or should I push him away? What would Hailey Winthrop do in this situation?
I knew the answer even before I finished forming the thought. She’d kiss him.
I closed my eyes, opened my lips, and waited. But then he spoke instead.
“Is your skin real?” he whispered. “Can I touch it?
My eyes flew open. Was he joking? I was used to people teasing me about my skin, not asking to touch it. I smiled and waited another second for him to laugh — but he didn’t. He was serious.
“Um, okay.” I nodded slightly and held out my arm. But instead, he reached for my cheek. I gasped softly as his fingertips connected with my skin. I know it sounds totally cheesy, but the best word I can use to describe how it felt is electric.
His hand lingered there. I could feel his fingers trembling as they rested on my face. I wanted to tell him that it was all right. That he didn’t have to be nervous. That he could keep them there for as long as he wanted. But I’d lost my voice. And I’d lost my senses, too.
Suddenly, the door opened and a customer walked into the store. Nasir tore his hand away, scooped up the shekels on the counter, and practically hurled them into the cash register. He looked so guilty, like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
“You’d better go!” he whispered, pushing the package of gum towards me.
I felt guilty, too, even though I wasn’t exactly sure why. I nodded, turned on my heels, and fled out the door, up the street, and to the steps of my apartment. My cheek was still tingling on the spot where he’d touched me. I couldn’t get his face out of my head.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!
Slowly, I lifted my head up from my knees and took a long, deep breath. I thought about the return ticket I still had tucked away in my room upstairs. The three-month mark of our move to Israel was just two days away.
And then I thought about those incredible brown eyes. And the feel of his fingers on my face.
Okay … so maybe I’ll hang around this country a little bit longer.
Chapter 12
The date came and went without so much as a word. Dad was so focused on his upcoming archaeological dig that I think he forgot about our deal. Lately all he wanted to talk about was bones and dirt and pickaxes. And you thought your parents were weird!
The dig was scheduled for the first three weeks of November. I had mixed feelings about leaving for so long, but Dad didn’t give me much choice. When I tried to suggest staying here in Jerusalem with Marla and her family, I got the same old “we’re going to stick together, damn it” speech that I got in Toronto, so I knew it was hopeless.
And I couldn’t even use school as an excuse. Wielding his professor status, Dad pulled some strings and arranged for me to get an academic credit for helping on the excavation.
“You’ll see, Mack — you’ll love it,” he promised. But seriously, I had my doubts.
Early the next Sunday morning, we took a bus north to Tiberias. The first part of the drive was through the Judean desert. The sand was everywhere. And the road was dusty and dry; my throat was parched just looking at it. I kept my eyes glued to the window, watching the sand — the vastness of it was mesmerizing. All I could think about was how easy it would b
e for a person to just disappear out here in this desert wasteland and be lost forever.
When we arrived, we settled into the hotel and met the rest of the group. I hadn’t realized what a big deal this dig was. In addition to the students from the university, volunteers from all around the world had come to help out. There were backpackers from Australia and New Zealand, a middle-aged husband and wife from England, a group of friends from Italy, a father and son from the US, and a tour group of twentysomethings from Montreal.
There was even one grandmotherly woman from Iceland who said it had been her lifelong dream to be here. And a newly married couple from South Africa who had come here for their honeymoon.
A lifelong dream to dig in the dirt? Honeymooning with a shovel and bucket? Seriously?
Needless to say, they were all gung-ho about getting to work. But I have to admit that it took me a few days to wrap my head around this place … and even longer to get used to the early hours.
Every day we were woken up at five o’clock in the morning, given a light meal of coffee and cake, and bused to the site. Digging usually ended each day by two in the afternoon.
Now, I’m not normally the kind of girl to pull a princess trip, but I mean, come on — five o’clock in the morning? Can you imagine? I don’t care if it was the best way to avoid the heat. Plus, the work we had to do was really hard! We toiled away in pits of dirt, digging, scooping, sifting, and brushing. Everyone wore hats and sunblock and thick gloves that reminded me of Mom’s old gardening gloves. Except unlike Mom’s prize-winning roses, the only things growing in this garden were bones and dust.
Man, the air was unbearably dry and dusty. By the end of each day, my muscles were tired and sore and I felt like I’d taken a bath in dirt and sweat.
But the worst thing of all had to be the toilet. Scratch that — it wasn’t even a toilet: it was a dingy, smelly porta-potty that was totally gross. The first time I saw it I wanted to cry. I swear to God, it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Biblical times. The floor was caked with dirt, the toilet seat crusted with dried urine, and the stench that emanated from that dark, dank hole was practically prehistoric. I swore up and down that I wouldn’t use it.
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